


The Rite of Shadows

by Rigil_Kentauris



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes
Genre: Bittersweet, Brufonse Week 2019, During Canon, M/M, Memories, POV Third Person, Pre-Canon, book i chapter 11, faith and friendship, medium depictions of battlefield violence at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-27 20:43:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20766680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rigil_Kentauris/pseuds/Rigil_Kentauris
Summary: Call to him, Anna had said, with all your heart and soul.And so, closing his eyes, he does.-brufonse week 2019 day 2! prompt: distance





	The Rite of Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> me: okay post it!  
ao3: bitch u gotta name it  
me: OH FUCK I GOTTA NAME IT
> 
> anyway! [brufonse week day 2, cuddle / **distance**](https://brufonseweek.tumblr.com/post/187476678084/brufonse-week-2019)  
yall knew a angst was coming when u saw that fluff didnt u heehee  
this was also sort of day uh 5 but i think i will do day 5 again anyhow. if work chills out a bit. hopefully. hehe. see what id id there. anyway.  
please oh please let there be no more typos. im callin with all my heart here

The wood under their feet is dark, and heavy, and damp. It creaks as he kneels.

It’s been a long while since Alfonse given devotion to Askr. Longer still since he thought it would matter, but today, though…today isn’t about Askr.

And today_ will_ go right.

_As long as he's alive, Zacharias will be able to hear us…_

It has to.

Alfonse clasps his hands and rests his forehead against them as Anna speaks the rite.

_Call to him, w__ith all your heart and soul!_ she declares.

_Now! _

And so, closing his eyes, he does.

-

** _Year 4, Autumn_ **

“Come on!” Alfonse calls to Sharena. She doesn’t look both ways before she darts out of the room, down the hallway, and then slides neatly through the small crawlspace door hidden in the already-concealed depression in the wall. She pumps her fist silently as Alfonse mouths a _good work_ at her. Then she shimmies past him, and crawls off down the darkened secret tunnel.

Step One, done. One more to go before the three of them are off on their self-appointed Have A Picnic mission.

Back down the hallway, Zacharias pokes his head out of the door.

He wears an undeniably suspicious expression.

“Let’s go!” Alfonse shouts.

Zacharias shoots a dirty scowl Alfonse's way.

“Let’s go,” Alfonse whispers. Loudly.

Zacharias vehemently shakes his own head again, which is really just the most amusing thing, to Alfonse. Of the three of them, he’s got the least chance of getting caught walking down a hallway. For one, he insisted on A Disguise, for whatever _that_ was worth. He’s got on the most plain, boring clothes he can find. He’s even messied up his short hair and let some dusty woodchips fall on it. He looks for all the world like a castle mason’s apprentice. Someone who would absolutely be able to waltz down a itty bitty little abandoned corridor, if he so desired.

Should have never let Zacharias go last, Sharena was right.

_Fine then_, Alfonse mouths. It takes a few moment to wriggle his way out of the crawlspace, and he pauses to take a deep breath before dashing back up the hallway.

“Wha-” Zacharias starts, his eyes wide with misplaced horror.

His eyes only get wider as Alfonse slips behind him, then starts pushing Zacharias off down the hall.

Zacharias splutters protests, while digging his heels in and making himself a general nuisance. _Hey- wh- we’re going to get in trou-_

“Shoosh.” Alfonse says. “We’re not. After all, I’m the crown prince and you’re my-”

Voices. Both he and Zacharias freeze.

Okay, so they may be _slightly_ in trouble. Alfonse recognizes those voices. One is the captain of the king’s guard, a older fáfnir who despite her frail appearance, could knock an entire battalion out while half-asleep. Accompanying her is the voice of the captain of Alfonse’s own small honorguard. Now that guy, he’s even _more_ terrifying. A grizzled veteran of the last war with Embla, he yells, shouts, and believes Discipline is a gift from the gods.

Alfonse jabs Zacharias in the side and then takes off. It only takes seconds to reach the crawlspace, but it feels like hours. He starts crawling, intending to spare only the briefest glance backwards to grin at Zacharias, and-

Zacharias hasn’t moved.

Not even a hair’s width.

“We gotta go!” Alfonse hisses, urgently. Zacharias doesn’t respond. Alfonse isn’t even sure he’s been heard. Zacharias eyes are curiously blank, and oddly distant.

The voices get closer. They have very little time.

“They’re coming!” he says, a fraction louder. Still, nothing. Zacharias sways a little in place, but it seems detached. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.

A finger poking Alfonse's side makes him jump, and bang his head against the top of the tunnel._ What’s going on,_ Sharena seems to gesture. He doesn't have time to explain. The footsteps. They’re here.

_Well, _ he thinks, _ Zacharias is going to a litttttle annoyed_ _ with me._

And then he doesn’t think about it any further.

He pushes himself out of the secret passage with as much force as he can.

“Zacharias!” he yells, and runs flat out to grab his arm. Zacharias starts, and looks around with confusion, then a dawning expression that Alfonse can only class as _Oh. Oh No._

The voices of the knights are shouting now, too. Doesn’t matter. All that matters is Zacharias has snapped back to it, and catches up with Alfonse as they make what has got to be the world’s fastest sprint towards the crawlspace. They make it with only seconds to spare, scrambling down the tunnel far enough so they can engage the mechanism, and slide the rock door closed behind them.

Sharena is more or less rolling on the ground with silent laughter, tears streaming down her face.

“You two,” she chokes out, in between hiccups, “are so – terrible at this.”

“Ah ha ha,” Alfonse whispers, unamused. He glances over at Zacharias, but whatever had gotten hold of him earlier seems to have passed. He’s smiling now, on the verge of the same laugh as Sharena.

“I would agree,” he concedes.

“I don’t know about this ‘we’,” Alfonse grumbles, but it’s a happy kind of grumble, Equilibrium has been established. Everything is fine again. And when they finally make it out of the maze of the royal castle, all is forgotten.

-

** _Year 8, Winter_ **

In books, the winter festival is a fascinating affair. On the night of the solstice, or so it goes, the gods of the underworld take flight and go hunting, marking their prey and dragging them off, screaming, into the world beyond life itself.

A fascinating story – in books.

In person, Alfonse feels like Hel would be the better choice, right now.

Another puffed-up noble clad in red velvet and green ribbons and gold little bells kneels on the heavy, cloying wooden parquet floor of the ceremony room, in order to press yet another heavy, cloying kiss to Alfonse’s hand.

“My prince,” the noble greets, then sashays off to dance, likely with someone who doesn’t want to.

The _dancing. _At _least_ Alfonse is spared _that_. It would be a great political boon for anyone to be seen dancing with a member of the ruling family. Too much of a boon, in fact. Were Alfonse permitted to dance, he’d be at for a good week before the politics of Askran nobility were balanced.

Better, the king has decided, to avoid all that.

Secretly, Alfonse just thinks the prohibition on the royals dancing is because Gustav dances like a horse with one leg, and so does the Queen.

The only one who had ever seemed despondent about the situation was Sharena. God only knew the number of times she’d tried to sneak into a ball in disguise. In fact…

Alfonse tunes out the noble who’d arrived at the dais to try and curry some favor or another, and scans the crowd as best he can without seeming like he’s doing it. The ball is lovely and flashy and busy, which means it will be near impossible to determine wherever Sharena has inevitably hidden herself away this time. Near the staircase, perhaps? The scrolling wood railing is polished within an inch of its life, and each stone stair has received much the same treatment. The carpet is plush, and leaves indentations as various guests descend and have their name announced. Sharena loves watching the visitors. She and the rest of the established court usually has all the names memorized by the end of the night. Despite that, there is very little crowd there at the moment.

Another noble steps up. Alfonse pays little attention. The wall, perhaps? It would be very unlike his sister to tuck herself away from the action by clinging to the sidelines, but, then again, she’d know no-one would look for her there. There are a number of refined hopefuls congregating in groups there, casting shy yet calculating looks at the Eligible Those who currently strut around with various levels of self-importance. Alfonse rolls his eyes, and is treated to an flurry of apologies from the noble currently clinging to his hand. Alfonse feels the sting of a faint blush. Were the king here yet, Alfonse would be getting a _very_ stern talking to.

Hm. Sharena seems to be nowhere, which is very strange. Very strange indeed. She’s in not in any of her usual spots. Is she late, perhaps…? No, impossible. Something is wrong. Something’s up. His Sharena-Danger sense is alerted. She’s up to something.

The next noble that approaches is mercifully silent, allowing Alfonse to tune him out entirely. He’s close, he can feel it. He abandons all pretext of concern with the current doings of the nobles, in order to openly scan for-

There.

Well.

How strange.

Sharena is leaning against a column, in knight's armor, no less. No wonder he didn’t see her. The ceremonial knights standing guard are paid very little attention. They_ certainly_ don’t dance. They are there merely to watch over those present. The only looks they ever get are jealous ones, from particularly aggressive Eligible Those who envy the fact that the knights have the best viewpoints in the hall-

Oh. _OH._ She’s planning something, and she wants to watch. He glares at her as politely as he can, and feels a small jolt of alarm as she smirks at him.

He opens his mouth to alert his own guard about her presence, see if she likes that-

And then slams his mouth closed with surprise.

“My prince,” the noble before him purrs, in a voice that is both damningly familiar, and damningly unknown.

The noble lightly elevating Alfonse’s hand doesn’t do quite what he’s supposed to. No distant, chaste, diplomatic attention does he give. No, instead, he lightly kisses the tips of Alfonse’s fingers, one, by, one, so slow that the noble behind him huffs out a disapproving noise.

Alfonse makes a noise, too. Not quite as dignified a noise, though. Because when he looks down, and when the noble tilts his head up just so, just, just so, who is kneeling there in the most exquisitely tailored, dark-black-green silk gentleman’s gown other than-

“Z- Zac_haRI__**AS?!**_” Alfonse squeaks.

No.

No, that would have been even somewhat dignified.

No, in truth Alfonse more or less shouts this fact, to the entire court.

They – gods of Hel coming for his soul – stop shuffling as one.

Zacharias grimaces hard as the whole of the court's collective attention shifts to the dais. Alfonse blushes deeply, from head to toe he’s fairly certain he’s bright red. He doesn’t even _look_ over at Sharena.

“Your grace,” Zacharias hums, shifting his tone slightly so he sounds more, well, for all the world he sounds _Emblian._ “I believe you have me mistaken.”

“I, ah…” The line of nobles is staring at Alfonse now, except the one behind Zacharias, who is still glaring with disapproval at the way he is still cradling Alfonse’s hand gently. The feeling of Zacharias’ careful kisses lingers ephemerally on Alfonse’s fingertips.

Somehow, Alfonse finds, it’s possible for him to blush even _harder._

“Of course,” Alfosnse says, in a rush, not quite remembering what he's agreeing _to._ “Yes. But of course, my sincerest apologies.”

The noble behind Zacharias turns the full force of his disapproval on Alfonse. God only knows how many of Alfonse’s diplomatic mistakes the noble has been tallying up tonight.

But Alfonse can’t bring himself to truly care about it. Few things matter at that moment. The flicker of the magnificent candle light in Zacharias radiant red eyes. The matching red rubies that sparkle in his disguise-dyed hair. The rustle and shuffle of the magnificently embroidered silk that hugs every line of Zacharias’ body.

Oh gods. Oh gods, Alfonse is in trouble.

“Perhaps,” Zacharias murmurs, mischievously tilting his head down in the perfect court-approved demure posture that Alfonse _knows_ he doesn’t mean, “your grace would chose to honor me with a dance, as a token of your-”

“Yes,” Alfonse interrupts, before he can think better of it.

The grumbly noble has the audacity to actually puff up and start to verbally protest.

“Now,” Alfonse advises abruptly. Zacharias eyes sparkle.

“How could I ever deny the crown,” he says, and takes Alfonse’s other hand with as light and as careful a grasp as he has on the first one.

-

** _Year 10, Spring_ **

Alfonse has been in battles before. Though the commander disagrees, he continues to believe: battles at least have the common courtesy to remain organized.

Skirmishes, though.

The leader of Alfonse's honorguard screams all the way at the end of the field. A wyvern rider has run his gut through with a spear as she fell off into the woods. He topples, blood everywhere and not stopping and Alfonse is just too damn far away, he’ll never-

Zacharias races past him on Eittsvat, dew-damp clods of dirt flung from her hooves. Eittsvat deftly avoids the strikes that come at her, while Zacharias deflects the few javelins that are flung their way. Alfonse relaxes, immediately. A skirmish may be a hellish tangle, but Zacharias, now…

Zacharias, Alfonse will never doubt.

He puts the issue of his honorguard captain out of his mind entirely and devotes himself to seeing his way though the flurry of violent strikes that reach out for him.

He’s breathing hard when it’s over. Most his people are unharmed. Several of his guard are dead, though, and he feels their lost tear at him as if he’s the one who had been struck instead.

He glances around briefly, and sees Commander Anna waving frantically at him at the farthest part of the field, at the captain’s side.

The alarm flies back, fully fledged.

It’s hard to run in the mud. Harder still if he lets himself think about how much of the liquid comes from spilled blood. It sticks to his boots as he goes, sticking and peeling with every footstep. The field of battle was too large, too open. Too varied.

By the time he reaches the captain’s side, he’s dead.

It hits him harder than any weapon ever did. Anna is sobbing openly. Her mentor. Her guide. Her _friend._ A friend who should not have had to die like this, should not have had to die like this, while_ here,_ in a nothing battle, in the middle of nowhere, with no one at his side-

Alfonse draws a sharp breath. No, someone _should_ have been at his side.

Oh gods no.

“_ZACHARIAS!__”_ he screams, and takes off. Zacharias is nowhere. Alfonse can’t see him among the standing, among the moving, among those staring at Alfonse with open alarm among those immediately realizing what’s happened and starting to look around among those- among those- among the liv-

Oh gods.

Zacharias’ horse.

His horse comes tearing out of the forest, a longbow arrow jammed all the way through her back leg. Zacharias is sprawled against her mane, his eyes closed, hand loosly, limply holding on. Blood streams from a brutal gash across his chest. Another squad of bandits charge after him, and Alfonse’s company roars to life.

Everyone except Alfonse himself. He makes it to Zacharias just in time to catch him as he slips from his saddle.

Blood is all over his lips. It bubbles, mixed with desperate breaths and words Alfonse can't understand.

“Rest,” Alfonse begs him. “Please. Gods, please.”

Eittsvat has taken off, so he can’t search her saddlebags for the vulneraries he knows Zacharias keeps along with the rest of his emergency gear. All Alfonse has on him is an empty glass with a few drops and a large crack that had bloomed when Alfonse had to duck and roll under an axe strike.

Even is it was full, there’s no way in all the worlds Zacharias will be able to drink it, right now. Alfonse feels cold, feels frozen, feels already dead inside but this is not a skirmish. He won’t let it be.

This is a battlefield.

And battlefields have order.

“Stay here,” he says, quietly, and lets Zacharias’ body rest against the ground. Then he runs. He already knows what he needs, knows who will have it. He’s not any good with it, but it will work. It has to work. There is no other choice.

A healers staff. Belonging to an Order of Heroes apprentice. Alfonse had known the man. An affable, helpful sort.

He sends a silent prayer to the dead man’s spirit before grabbing it and running back.

Zacharias is barely breathing when Alfonse lands at his side. Truthfully, Alfonse doesn’t know _how_ he’s still breathing. With the blood drying now, the full extent of the wound is visible. The depth of it, the distance is stretches, from is shoulder to upper part of his other hip…it should have killed him.

It should have killed him. Why hadn't it...?

No. No, that doesn’t matter. All that matters is the staff.

Alfosne clasps his hands around it, and closes his eyes, and tries to believe, with all his heart. Tries to believe in the child who’d been the first real person to understand him. To believe in the friend who’d brought joy and love to his life. Believed in the stupid, foolish, loyal, bold, _kind _man who’d torn across the battleground like it was nothing at all.

The power drains from Alfonse all at once. The staff lights up, yes, but Alfonse can’t keep it like that. Black spots are already beginning to form over his vision.

_No,_ he thinks. _I refuse._

He tries to shove aside the exhaustion. He’s learned unstoppable determination from his sister, learned irrefutable stubbornness from Zacharias. And he himself, well…

But everything he is…

Everything he _wants… _

For all that, he’s only human.

And the gods seem disinclined to answer his final, panicked hopes.

Both the staff and consciousness slip from his grasp.

Motion.

He startles awake, a hand on his shoulder shaking him hard.

Commander Anna. His hearing is muffled, but her face seems frightened. She calls over her shoulder and makes frantic gestures. Fine. Okay. That will do.

He rolls out of her grasp, and his world rolls with him.

Beside him, Zacharias is…

Is gone?

“Where is he?” he tries to say. He can hardly hear himself, but the words sound slurred and confused.

Anna’s gaze softens.

She says something.

He refuses to hear it.

“Where is he?” he repeats, loudly. He tries to push himself to his feet. Anna clamps down hard and sit him back in the mud.

She hesitates.

When she finally speaks, it’s the cold, abrupt end to the hopeful life he’d once dared to imagine would be his.

Would be…would be _theirs._

“I’m sorry,” Anna finally repeats, casting her eyes aside. “I…We don’t know.”

-

_Summer_

The dark, heavy, damp wood creaks as Alfonse kneels. _As long as he's alive, _Anna had said. _H__e__ will be able to hear us…_

He clasps his hands and rests his forehead against them as Anna speaks the rite.

_Call to him, w__ith all your heart and soul!_ she declares. _Now! _

Deep in his heart, he’s not sure he believes, anymore.

But, Alfonse closes his eyes anyway, and for one last time he cries for his Zacharias to come back to him.

**Author's Note:**

> i just want you all to know how close i came to writing zbs point of view from that winter party because he was in full freak out mode. he sure does look suave tho dont he. punk. i see u brunbun.


End file.
